Like the Ticking of a Clock
by emerald-nellie
Summary: Time. What is it?


Like The Ticking Of A Clock 

Time. _–noun_. An indefinite period; finite duration.

Time is like a race. A race with no finishing line and nowhere to go.

The clock has stopped.

Its long iron arms have come to a screeching halt just before two o'clock in the morning.

The air is still; nothing moves to disrupt it.

Time has stopped; now there's nothing to do but wait until it resumes its paramount ticking. When that will be, I don't know. It all depends on the Warden.

He has control of the time in this place. If he wants to speed it up and watch us age before his very eyes, all he has to do is quicken the clock. If he wants time to stand still, for us to be captured, motionless, in our last movement, he merely needs to grab hold of those thin iron needles and bring them to a standstill. I've never truly caught him in the act of doing so, but it's plain that he does.

I don't know which is worse: time racing past at ten hours a second, or it not moving at all. I always find myself wishing for the other, it all comes back to the grass being greener on the other side.

Sometimes it even feels like time doesn't exist here anymore. It becomes meaningless. For a lot of time with nothing to do, or a little time with nothing to do, it is still time wasted. Always here, my time is being wasted.

_Tick._

I snap my neck around. It takes minutes. My eyes slowly scan the area under the clock for the Warden. He must be around somewhere; the clock has started up again. But again, I seemed to have missed him in the act.

_Tick. _

Another second passes by, its sound ringing like mocking laughter in my ears.

_Tick._

I reach my arm out and hook it around the cold, metal bar. Under the current speed of time, the act takes me almost three hours. I keep my eyes glued to that iron face, the whole time, as another second passes.

The men and women in the cells around me toss and turn in their sleep. I can hear them. As time never passes they remain in their slumber, haunted constantly by their horrifying nightmares.

Some of the unlucky ones may even grow hopeful, as they cease to wake, that they have died during the night. They will themselves to believe it.

But, alas, as time slowly creeps upon them and they open their eyes to the morning light, they see another light: that is to say, they realize that all their hopes were in vain.

Fourteen years later, the clock strikes seven in the morning. The day has begun and the Warden sends his guards around the cells to inspect.

They wear hoods; you can't see their faces. As they seemingly glide past, it feels like any remaining hope of happiness is being sucked right out of me.

By the time I have returned to a sitting position on the floor, the clock strikes eight. For days and weeks, months and years, I remain in that sitting position. I watch the clock, but time barely passes.

With the abrupt moderations in my environment, be it time or body, it is hard to keep up with how long I've been trapped in here. Not that it actually matters. After all, I will be stuck in here for the rest of my life, no matter how long or short that is. There is nothing to do but wait.

Then before I know it, everything is happening all at once. Looking back at the clock I can't make out the hands; they are a blur. They spin so quickly I think I can see smoke rising from the friction created.

Three years pass in the space of an hour. My body is being jerked around and pulled in so many different directions.

The sun rises up in the air, only to fall back down into the surrounding sea. Time just keeps going and going, never stopping. Guards race past my cell, my body struggles to keep up with the constant change of time.

It tires me out; it tires everybody out. In such times I wish desperately for the halt of time. For the relief of having nothing to do.

But then, just when I think that I cant go on any longer, that I will perish if I try – the thought is a much welcomed one –

The clock has stopped.

Again, we start out slow and feverish cycle, a cycle with nothing to fill the time, no matter how fast or slowly it passes.

Always ultimately wishing that Time would cease to exist all together. Because if Time does not exist, then neither do we.

Time. _–noun_. An indefinite period; finite duration.

Time is like a race. A race with no finishing line and nowhere to go.


End file.
